


Minor Adjustments

by BreadedAndFried



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Im basing RIngo off my cat, No Romance, No Smut, Not Enough Puns, POV Second Person, Post The End, Pre The End, Rivalry, This feels too serious for the series, This is terrible, i cant write, why do i write them as ansty teens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-09-27 10:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17160440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreadedAndFried/pseuds/BreadedAndFried
Summary: Hello friends!So, this is my first fic, that im uploading at least, and uuuh,...I may not be good at writing, and my story telling is like, all over the place, but I hope that you can give me a chance, and sit through some literary tourture.I have a whole, grand speech i could type out, but you're not here to hear me blab about who knows what. Although, isn't that knid of what a fic is...?Back on track, this is a multi-chapter and possibly chunk of a series that ive been wanting to write for awhile now. I apologize if i get an element of the story, lore, characters, etc. wrong; Im still rather new to this hahaI will be updating tags and such as the series continues or i when think of things that have slipped my mind.Anyway, I hope you enjoy my crap writing!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! 
> 
> So, this is my first fic, that im uploading at least, and uuuh,...  
> I may not be good at writing, and my story telling is like, all over the place, but I hope that you can give me a chance, and sit through some literary tourture. 
> 
> I have a whole, grand speech i could type out, but you're not here to hear me blab about who knows what. Although, isn't that knid of what a fic is...?
> 
> Back on track, this is a multi-chapter and possibly chunk of a series that ive been wanting to write for awhile now. I apologize if i get an element of the story, lore, characters, etc. wrong; Im still rather new to this haha
> 
> I will be updating tags and such as the series continues or i when think of things that have slipped my mind.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy my crap writing!

Your name is Patryck, and you’re working an afternoon shift.  
You and a friend own a pub, working together to cover duties. Although the two of you switch off shifts quite a bit, it’s not unusual to find the two of you working together, especially during holidays, weekends, and Fridays. Although you’re pretty sure Friday counts as a holiday. He and you have owned a decently-sized pub for several years now, enjoying the break from your usual life-style. 

It’s roughly 8:30 pm, and the supper rush has slowed to a calmer stream. Paul, your partner, and a hired hand are serving the rest of the customers, while you dry glasses. You heave a sigh, letting the stress of a Friday night dinner rush leave your aching body. You’ve been inactive around the pub, and you’re a little rusty. 

As you set the dry and clean crystal-glass jugs onto a top shelf for use, Paul passes behind the bartender’s stand, sliding in beside you with a few used wine glasses and beer kegs. He shoulders his way into the kitchen, his feet still moving much quicker than you have the whole evening. 

You sigh again. 

Paul comes out a couple minutes later with various platters of food balanced up and down the whole length of his arms. He fluidly maneuvers over to a cluster of tables that had been moved together to form a large dining area for a large party. He somehow manages to serve every dish to it’s correct patron, knowing all of their names and orders. He makes small talk, since the party members are regulars, you see them quite often and love to make conversation. He fills glasses, takes other tables orders, and ends up lounging on a bar stool, looking like he owns the place on the other side of the bar, his back facing you. You both sit in a silence, the two of you being comfortable in each other’s presence. You sigh again. Not on purpose, since you probably don’t really have anything to be sad, stressed, or worried about, Paul just seems to make you spill out all of your emotions. 

“What’s your issue?” He asks, his voice sort of gruff but never aggressive. 

“Nothing.”

He makes a casual glance back towards you. He shrugs, knowing you’ll talk eventually. 

You always do. 

You both continue your jobs: Paul gets food from the cook in the back and does the usual jobs of a waiter, and you clean glasses, play the role of bartender, and do the accounting, management, or the usual for a business whenever you get the spare chance. The hired hand retires for the night and the night shift worker is declared on duty. She and you do the bartending as Paul gets a break. Him literally just sitting in the corner stool gets you to talk. How he does it, you’ll probably never know. 

“I just don’t know if we’re doing the right thing, Paul,” You mumble out, making your thoughts known. He’s silent for awhile, seeming to be chewing your statement. 

“He says he’s doing it for the better,” a pause; “in the field, a lot of things can become legal. And he’s respected the rules of war,...” he leaves his sentence unfinished, and it hangs in the air, seemingly hovering over the both of you like a thick cloud. 

The two of you sit in silence for awhile, as you seem to slowly digest his words, until your bartending partner asks for your assistance with the overhaul of customers. 

As you slug your way over to the prepping area, you’re met with a familiar and hard to miss face. The familiar, slumped navy-blue shoulders straighten ever-so slightly at the sight of you, and you can’t help but feel your troubled spirits lifted at someone looking forward to conversing with you. Especially from the nonchalant man sitting before you. 

“Will it be the usual?”

“If you would be so kind,” he responds, a small smile edging his lips. He seems to be in a better mood then you’ve seen him in awhile. Hm. 

Your hand reaches for a large glass but the man behind you changes your course. 

“Oh, Pat, I’ll be fine with just a medium.” A much better mood.

Your interest is piqued, but you try not to show it, and just do as the customer asks. You set the usual sized glass on the counter and neatly pour a serving of his favorite cold, clear, hard liquor. You set the glass before him, keeping the bottle of Smirnoff close, and watch him take a slow sip. Like a creep. Because when described, it sounds much more violating than if you were actually there.

He sighs, closing his eyes, or lack of, to be more accurate, then sets the glass gently down on the dark wood bench. This regular has always stood out to you, and would easily be picked out in a crowd. He holds himself rather loose, having a drawl of ‘I don’t care’ and ‘my friends dragged me into this’ which seems to be two of his favorite phrases. 

He sets his chin on his propped up hand, seemingly staring into the glass he casually is swishing in his other. His eyebrows are slacked and his eyelids are half closed, giving him a sleepy look. 

“How’s business?” He asks, seeming to be lollygagging in his thoughts.

“Same as always; you?” He smiles, an easy, genuine smile.

“My friends haven’t been purposefully bothering me, so that’s nice,” he flips his propped hand over. “Although it's a little worrying, I need it. It’s been too long since I could just hear myself think, you know?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s nice to have a break,” he makes a grunt in agreement and you concoct a few drinks before going back to the regular. He’s been sipping on his drink, taking his time and enjoying it. 

“How’s Paul?”

“He’s good, well, better than me at least,” he looks at you, an eyebrow slightly raised, and his black craters for eyes seem to stare you down, despite his intention.

“I know it’s usually your job to listen to me complain about my problems and what-have-you, but,” he straightens, setting both of his elbows on the counter and clasping his hands, his attention obviously directed at you, “I can make an exception and hear your problems for a change.” He gives you a smirk, knowing you know he’s being sarcastic.

Your face has about as much emotion as a rock. He raises his eyebrows a little higher.  
“I don’t have ‘problems’.” 

“Oh bul-“ you cross your arms and give him an eyebrow. You jerk your head toward the direction of a family with a few notably well behaved children. “Shenanigans.” He looks at you, very displeased. He pauses and glances at the clock.

“It’s almost 9,” huffing and scrunching up your eyes you give him a look of slight disgust. 

“Do you know how rare it is to serve children that aren’t discourteous? It’s very rare. More rare than Paul calling in sick,” you look at each other for a minute; “okay maybe not that rare, but you get the point.” He stares at you for a second, then explodes into a laughing fit. You look at him, thoroughly confused, as he seems to be choking and gasping for air. He pounds one of his fists on the countertop and clutches his doubled over side with the other hand. He gets redder in the face, as he continues to choke on his own breath. This expressiveness is surprising, especially from someone who seems rather nonchalant over most topics. 

It feels like he has a fit for forever and you begin to question if you’re going to have to preform the Heimlich again, when the “never-ending series of attempts at recovering his composure” finally ends. He roughly smears at his lack-of eyes with the back of his hand, removing the evidence of the tears he’s conspired from laughing. 

Still recovering, “Pat, your sense of humor never ceases to amaze me.”

“Was that an insult?”

He shrugs, an overly-smug look on his face.

“Depends on how you take it,”

“Cryptic. Wouldn’t expect any less from the satire king himself,”

“You’re dripping with sincerity,”

“My point exactly.”

He gives a warm, light-hearted chuckle.

“So are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” segue back to the point. Fantastic. 

You give him a deadpan look, doubt visibly creasing your eyebrows. 

“You don’t want to listen to my problems.”

“But you admit you have problems,” he says it like it’s a fact. 

You search his face, narrowing your eyes as you do so. You eventually sigh. 

“I’m just, questioning my actions.” He tilts his head slightly to his right. “Past decisions, morals, thoughts along those lines.” He gives a soft, long hum of acknowledgement. 

You feel a little awkward in the silence, despite the white noise of a public area. 

“I speak from experience when I say: it’s better to fix your mistakes, for the sake of the future, rather than undoing the past.  
“It’s all in the heart. You can’t dwell in the past. It’ll just leave you in a ditch, which you’ll probably never be able to get out of.” His voice doesn’t seem to have a bitter taste, or be coming from a place of pride or distain.

“That was, mature and a little cliché of you, all at the same time.” There’s a faint hint of teasing in your voice. 

“What can I say, I’m a different person when I’m not having a crisis.” He easily picked up on the jab. You find it interesting that he seemed to refrain from using the word “sober”. 

You unintentionally stare at him, as you lose yourself in your own mind. He runs a hand through his gravity-defying, light brown hair and continues to casually sip his drink. Paul slides in from behind you, probably dropping by from the kitchen, and tells you the late import is now ‘in’. With the slight twitch of an eyelid, you know he’s talking about something a little different from meat and potatoes. 

And after you give a casual “okay” he’s off to the back.

“So your ‘crisis’ is over?”

“Hm? Ah, for the most part. I recently moved in with a couple of friends and am still going through boxes and the like; they’re, the friends i usually hang around,”

“Well at least it’s not awkward or anything like that, I’m assuming.”

“I practically already lived there; moving in was easy enough.”

“Why did you move?” Your conversation is slow and casual, not seeming to be in any hurry and with an undecided destination. 

“Convince.  
Also my landlord may have thought I passed and leased my apartment.”

“Well that will put you on the street, huh?”

“Mhm. I had to buy some of my stuff back from random people who won the auction. My parents had the more valuable things so that wasn’t a problem. Although they didn’t want to give up my toaster. Said it was ‘tax’.”

“Ah, parent tax. One of my favorite benefits.” He looks at you quizzically. 

“You have kids?”

“Oh, no no, I just have a friend, who, accuses me of trying to be his parent, and it has... sort of sticked? It’s become a habit.” Admitting to being a dad-friend makes you feel a little flustered. 

“I’m a little surprised; you don’t seem to be the ‘parent’ type friend. I always took you as someone who’s neat but wouldn’t force it onto people.” You can’t help chuckling at the honest, curiosity that he seems to unknowingly be showing.

“I’m glad someone noticed my tidiness. Most of the people around me are only ‘neat’ for the sake of being professional. Let me say,” You cast a few glances around you and lower your voice, “Paul is difficult to live with.”  
“I can tell,” he says through a stifled grin.

“Yes, I’m not usually perceived as a more ‘nurturing’ friend but it kind of just, happened? It’s difficult to explain.”

He grunts, again. 

After a little while of silence, “Well, it seems you have folks you can trust. Try discussing things out with them. And I can always lend an ear if need be. Just hope I drop in on the right days.” He asks for his check and you glance down at the glass, now only slightly wet on the outside from condensation. This is a surprise; he’s barely been here for 15 minutes and seems very sober. He pays the fine and tells you to ‘keep the change’. He tells you to ‘take care of yourself’, and tells the now returned Paul he’s “slacking”. This gets a dramatic eye roll from Paul and a not-so-evil cackle from you. 

And with that, Tom’s off. 

Paul glances at you from the corner of his eye, “What did you two talk about?”

“Oh, nothing. You know, business, parents, messy flatmates,...” you get an elbow in the ribs. You punch his arm back. 

“I was going to say you should take a break, but now I’m taking it for myself.”

“Oh come on, I’m in a better mood. I thought you’d be happy,” adding a little more emphasis to words never hurt anyone. 

“I’m oh-so-glad you are in a better mood, but I don’t think it should be at the cost of my state of mood.”

“Is that a thing?”

“It is now.”

“Your comebacks never cease to amaze me.”

“Okay, you’ve been hanging around him for too long.”

“What? No I haven’t.” 

“You’re digging your own grave, kid. “

“...”

“...”

“...Do I still get that break?”

“Now that you’ve asked, no.”

“Whatever happened to ‘partners’?”

He smacks the back of your head. Not hard, but enough to make you have to catch yourself. 

“Go take your break. We still have a few hours before we’re supposed to close doors.” There’s a softness in his voice, and something written across his thick eyebrows which catches you from making another jab. 

You look out at the restaurant, at the people, familiar and other wise, and then back at him. No one can know. No one should know. Here, you feel the sleepy lull of a safe place, separate from your track records. They couldn’t dream of the things he and you have done. And they won’t have to know. Everything has worked out so far.  
You’re prepared for it not to be. 

 

-

 

The next day...

 

“It’s coming down pretty hard.” The fat drops splash against the big window and trickle downward. The pattering of rain has steadily been ear-splittingly loud for about a half hour now. Since the sun’s been blotted out, the sky has only gotten darker, forcing the street lights on earlier than usual. It’s still rather early in the day, couple hours past noon, but it’s already quite dark out. 

Pat’s sitting in-front of the counter, staring out the window. He’s off in his own thoughts again, probably thinking about puppies or something. Why puppies? The guy is weird. And puppies are great. An older woman calls his full name and he greets her with a sheepish smile, finally out of his trance. She asks for water and he goes and gets the refill pitcher. Business is slow and Pat says he’s going to turn in for the day. And you’re left with a couple hired hands and a few lollygagging customers. 

 

The front door chimes as it’s opened. Without getting a good look at them, you say the usual, “feel free to pick a seat; anywhere is fine,” before resuming conversation with an old acquaintance about his rough life on the sea. You excuse yourself for ‘a moment’ to tend to your job. A quick scan of the room and you pin-point the new comer. A masculine figure slouches over a bar stool, back facing you. 

“Would you like a menu?” You ask the question as you make your way to the other side of the bench. 

The large man looks up from his rough clasped hands. “Oh, no I’m fine.” His voice is rather rough and deep, having a slightly strained sound to it. 

“Would you like a drink?”

“Yes err, can I get a Jolly Roger?”

“With coke?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he smiles slightly. You concoct the simple drink and hand it to your patron. He gives a quiet ‘cheers’ and takes a sip. His slightly sullen mood seems to instantly be brighter. He gives a happy, satisfied sigh. After a warm smile, his mood seems to slightly sober. “I miss these days.” The statement is left in the air, without further context. The bags under his eyes seem to darken and his dark eyebrows pull together over the bridge of his nose. Yet after another sip of his drink, his mood, once again, becomes brighter. A warm smile stretches across his stubbled face. 

When he drinks about a quarter of his beverage, he pops a question. You were about to step out from behind the counter but you decide against it. 

“Do you know anyone, he’s uh,” he makes a few motions with his hands as he finds his words, “he’s got brown-light brown hair, sort of spiky. Usually not in the best of moods....” you raise an eyebrow. “He goes by Tom.”

Your jaw tightens. Is he... talking about last night’s Tom? What connection could they possibly have?

“I’m sorry sir, but who are you?” the polite tone gives you a cover.

“Nobody important.” He says it rather nonchalantly. 

“I’m sorry, but sharing isn’t something I’m particularly good at.” The statement is left ambiguous on purpose. 

After that, you leave the counter and tend to a few new faces. 

 

The rain is still pouring outside, making you glad for indoor heating. 

“Hey, ‘tender,” the gruff voice calls you back behind the bench. He’s done with his beverage, and asks you for the bill. He slides over a few old and rough looking bills; you raise an eyebrow. Looking down at the slips of paper, he catches his mistake. After an awkward chuckle and a “sorry”, he pulls out a much smaller amount of money and you give him his change. He slowly gets up from his stool while putting the change in one of his dark trench coat pockets. Despite his current broad, slumped shoulders and loose body-language, his figure towers over you, easily surpassing two meters. And you were given a rather generous hight. 

The tall brunette scratches at his stubbled chin before he seems to remember something. He sticks his hand into his deep evergreen hoodie pouch and pulls out a neat, yet aged looking envelope. It’s a vanilla, cream color and looks like a letter you’d send to a grandparent.

“Do you mind passing on a letter?” He lays the crisp envelope on the contrasting dark wood. “You’d just have to make sure it gets to him.”

“No, I don’t mind,” you say it rather hesitantly, not knowing what you’re getting yourself into. He lifts his hand off the letter, giving you an easy smile.

“Well, I have to be off,” he looks around the room and looks like he’s soaking up the little details. He sighs. He mumbles something around the likes of ‘sweet while it lasted’ and makes his way over to the front door, his flat sneakers making quite the reverberation. He turns at the doorway. “Thanks, Paul.”

“Sure.” You look down at the long envelope. You flip it over and are surprised by a couple of 10 pound bills, in the same condition as you saw the others earlier. Behind the two bills, lay two lines of handwritten writing, the second smaller than the first.  
You read the writing. 

Your heart skips a beat and jumps into your throat. 

In a moment you’re at the door, straining your eyes to see through the rain. For a split second, there’s a dark silhouette on the sidewalk, and then, nothing. He must have turned down an alleyway or something because he’s just, gone.

You look down at the letter again, reading over the words one more time:

 

To Tom  
From Edd 

 

You feel your face tighten into a grimace. It... can’t be Tom’s Edd, can it? It wouldn’t make sense; why would Edd come here to deliver something, when they’re flat mates and could say anything they wanted to one another, practically when ever? Questions continue to circle your head until a couple dash down the street in wind breakers and quickly ask if you’re open. You usher them inside as they ask to come in. You can’t keep yourself from staring back one last time into the downpour, looking for one last trance of the man, who seems to be the very individual you’ve grown to know through second hand introductions. 

 

Nothing.

 

A slight creeping feeling still lingers in the dark crevices of your mind. It's a surreal feeling, similar to a dream that feels wrong, but because of a reason you can’t put your finger on; a dream that just feels, off. 

The rain seems to be letting up considerably, the constant barrage quieting down a little, and heightened voices lower. 

 

You can’t help feeling that, maybe you’ll meet him again, someday.  
Possibly even be properly introduced.


	2. Another Boring Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> I have returned, this time with the first chapter 
> 
> So, it's a little slow, and definitely not my finest work.  
> Kinda embarrassing to be honest hahah-  
> My writing "style" is kinda wonky and I feel like it doesn't fit very well...? But I've committed so, no turning back now!
> 
> I may like, rewrite this when I've gotten actually decent heh
> 
> Also I'm basing Ringo off of one of my real life cats; she's a sassy queen and I love her 
> 
>  
> 
> Well, I hope it's at least entertaining!

“Knock Knock,” you say, simultaneously rapping the door with your closed fist. 

“Who’s there?” A muffled response from behind the door. 

“It’s Tom.”

“‘Tom’ who?”

You sigh. “Thomas the tank engine.” Your very being screams at the overused and terrible joke; if you can even call it that. 

There’s audible scrambling for a second and then the door opens. A tall brunette, who currently has a bowl of cereal in his hand and a spoon of the sugary pellets in his mouth, opens the door. “Your kind isn’t welcomed here.” He says it, in between bites, looking as deadpan as possible. 

You roll your eyes to the best of your ability. You push past him and walk into his apartment. Ringo greets you from her cat-castle and you give her a passing scratch. She follows you as you walk, her long tail held high as she traverses over the nearby furniture. 

Your former flatmate lounges on his couch with the colorful cereal, his legs crossed underneath him. The TV’s on but you hit the fridge to search for food.

A female reporter’s voice drifts from the set. He lifts the metal spoon but lowers it, fastening his attention to her. “-report that details are still sparse concerning the port skirmish a few weeks ago. Most witnesses have reported a similar profile of the two sides. One being a local gang and the other being the organized militia, now having reported sightings in the following nations-“ she rehearses a list of nations in and near Europe and you guesstimate that there were about 14, 15 bullet points.  
His eyebrows furrow and he slowly lifts the spoon once more, and chews the mouthful at a snail’s pace.  
“-the organization has been labeled ‘illegal’, having done damage to several federal properties and easily being associated with underground activity. Their motives are unclear—“ 

“How old’s this pizza?” There’s a suspicious box sitting on the top shelf. 

He pries his eyes from the TV to look at you, wiping at the milk leaking from the corner of his mouth.  
You take the opportunity to nonchalantly turn off the TV with the remote on the counter. It’s for his own good.  
“Uh, I can't remember. I think from the last movie night,” 

“So, almost a week old?”

“I don’t know. Probably.  
“You can have it if you want.”

You stuff the box back on the top shelf, “Like I’ve ever needed your permission to eat.”

“You... don’t share the rent anymore.”

“Since when did ‘rent’ include food? You’ve eaten plenty of mine and said it was because we were ‘friends.’”

“So you admit we’re friends?”

“What? No- I didn’t say that.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds like you just demanded a friend perk, but won’t admit the title.”

“I hate you.”

“The Power of Friendship dilutes your words.”

Ringo is standing on the counter, asking to be held. She knows that standing on the counter gets her cuddles. 

You pick up the dark-grey tabby, mumbling ‘no cats on the counter’ as you cradle her in your arms. You can hear and feel her purrs as you scratch her throat. 

You head for the door, the damsel in your arms. ”Well, I’ve got what I came for; so long, Edd!” Said Edd has been staring you down since you got your leverage, knowing you’d probably run off with her. You turn your back at him to reach for the door, but shortly after feel a throw pillow, actually thrown at your head. “Oh. It’s on.” 

The cat in your arms is tossed onto the couch(she’s agile and used to it. She’s fine.) as a distraction so you can grab the plush, square pillow off the ground. He’s already thrown another, with the same hard force and it barely misses your shoulder. You slide on the hardwood, using your socks to your advantage, grab the other pillow and then dive for cover behind an end table. Edd picks up another pillow but doesn’t throw it, catching on that he’s supplying your ammunition. Neither of you makes a move, waiting for the other to take the first shot. 

You decide to, getting tired of having to bend your messed up back in a fashion that is highly uncomfortable. You dart out, using one of the pillows as a shield and throw the other, getting a satisfying sound of a hit, accompanied by a grunt. He replenishes your arsenal but gets your face good with one of the bigger ones. As you throw it back at him, the door clicks and abruptly swings open. 

“Hey g—!” Matt’s incredibly loud greeting is abruptly cut off by your pillow. None of you move; Matt’s face is frozen in that stupid grin he always wears on his annoying, square face and his grayish-green eyes are as happy as ever. Edd has a slightly dumbfounded expression while his arms are over his head clasping a pillow, which he was probably going to destroy you with. 

One of his feet is on the top of the couch, giving him even more of a high ground. 

Matt looks down at the throw pillow, which was in fact, thrown. He picks it up, not seeming to be in a rush, and stares down at it. He still has an overly optimistic grin on his face when looks at you; you know that look. It’s the same as it’s been since you were kids. A shiver runs down your spine and your mouth is suddenly incredibly dry. 

Before you know what’s happening, your back’s on the ground and your face is smarting from its ever recent contact with plush fabric. You just, lay there. Staring at the ceiling. From the sound of it, they’ve turned on each other and are facing off, blows being dealt and received on both sides. Out of laziness and strategy, you count the ceiling bumps and just, review your day and maybe try to place actions with sounds, since you can’t see the brawl. 

The battle rages for a good 25 minutes, at least that’s what you guess, and neither seem to have won. You get up, slow enough to not get a surge of head throbs, and quietly but casually traverse the living room which is now littered with pillows, a couple of cola cans, pogs, some spare change, random papers, a crystal vase of flowers that you heard crash onto the floor a few minutes ago, and other miscellaneous scattered about. The vase lays on the floor, a small puddle accumulated from the mouth which now has a good chunk of glass missing. You carefully pick up the container and broken off piece, making sure to not cut yourself and check for extra stray fragments. You set them both on the round table serving as a breakfast nook and then get the flowers. 

Matt and Edd are still at each other’s throats although their swings are slower and less powerful. Neither seem to notice you grabbing the corner of one of the bigger pillows at the same time you pick up the almost dead flowers. 

Matt goes down hard when you hit him. He lays there, his face on the floor. Edd looks down at him; he’s breathing hard, his mouth agape. He looks up at you, a dopey smile on his flushed face. Matt, his face still in the floor, grabs at the closer of Edd’s ankles and yanks hard enough to knock him off balance and lose his footing. 

His back hits the floor with a thud, the wind getting knocked out of him. They’re again, at each other’s throats in no time, both getting a second wind.  
You counter surf and pick through Edd’s pantry to continue your search for food. You could easily flatten both of them in a few seconds but you don’t feel like it. 

They’ll be done, eventually. 

By the time you’ve nuked a bag of popcorn and watched them for about five minutes, they’re, as you expected, done. One’s sprawled out on the couch and the other’s slowly climbing up the arm of the couch, forgetting that that isn’t exactly the easiest way to get on a couch. Matt’s the one dragging himself on furniture, if you couldn’t guess. 

“Are you guys done?” you say through a mouthful of popcorn, letting your boredom be known. Matt looks at you, looking slightly hurt. 

“Tom! How could you betray me like that? I thought we were friends!” Your eyes are rolled to the best of your ability. A strong frown plays center strange of his face and his grayish-green eyes are glazed looking. 

“You hit me first.”

“No, I didn’t!” Ugh. He’s so whiny. 

A bite of popcorn. “Yes you did.“

“You kind of did.” Edd’s getting a kick out of picking on you. 

“Stay out of this, Edd.” Matt and you snap at him.

“Well, then, consider it pay back for all of the times in the past you’ve caused me hospital trips.” He and you get a flashback montage from when you were kids; there’s even some snippets from your adulthood. 

When the music fades, Matt has a slightly horrified expression. You being a little more used to the memories, are able to hold a straighter face. Or it may just be that you’re just that cool. 

Yeah it’s definitely the first one. 

“You had another ‘flashback’, huh?” Edd’s petting his cat who’s lounging on his lap. 

“Yep.” More popcorn. Matt seems to just be, contemplating his life decisions. 

Edd finishes his cereal and gets up to wash his dish. You glance at the clock, and decide to hit the road. “I’ve gotta bounce. Later.” Matt’s biting his thumb nail, seeming deep in thought. Knowing him, it’s nothing special.

Drying his hands on a towel in the kitchen, Edd yawns and gives a half-wave. You spot Ringo’s dark tail as she walks away from the open window for a walk around the neighborhood, before Edd closes it to stop the outside cold air from eating up the heating bill. Half eaten bag of popcorn in you hand, you open the door with the other.  
Closing the door behind you, you turn around and pull out a wet erase marker you managed to swipe as you were picking up the vase and company. You stick your thumb in your mouth and wipe it on the little whiteboard on Edd’s door. Before it dries, you wipe your hoodie sleeve on it and semi-successfully have a blank slate. Your pointer get the job done. You’re going to have to wash your hands after this. The cap of the marker gives a squeak as you try to quietly pull it off. The green cap gingerly goes into the bag of popcorn. You switch the popcorn back to your right arm and try to muster your best version of Edd’s handwriting. 

You look at your work, rather pleased with yourself. You quietly sneak a few paces away and detach your attention from your minor, emphasis on the “minor”, felony. 

Down the hallway, you see two tall figures, heads bent together as they look at something you can’t see, standing in front of your door. You approach them with the usual drawl in your step, confident that your people skills aren’t too dulled. “May I help you?” 

The figures stop their quiet discussion and turn around to face you. You recognize them immediately. Why you didn’t before boggles you for years after. The two taller men are your Ex-neighbors from your old flat. They look as surprised to see you as you are to see them. Eduardo furrows his dark eyebrows and you notice how tired he looks. You guessed that his eyes were deeper set in his skull, making the areas around his eyes appear darker, but he genuinely looks exhausted. Mark looks a little better off. He seems to be keeping himself better than his friend but still tenses when he looks down at you. 

You re-continue chewing your food and swallow to try to not look like an idiot. 

“Hello, Tom,” Mark seems to be talking for the both of them. 

“Uh, hey.

“How have you guys been?”

Eduardo avoids eye contact. “Still a little shaken up but getting by; how about you?”

You hesitant for a second, wanting to say something to let them know they’re not alone; you still have nightmares sometimes, reliving those cursed hours again and again. You decide against it, knowing it may do more harm than good. 

“Eh. I’ve been better. So, can I help you or...”

Mark seems to remember something and hands you a slip of paper. “Can you direct us to this address?” You take the slip of paper and read it. 

“That’ll be, up a floor, the same door as this.”

“Thanks,” Mark takes back the paper you hold out to him and gives a small smile. One that looks a little more genuine than he’s probably forced in awhile. 

They walk away after a quick “bye”, and you get your keys out of your pockets. You don’t have to go far to reach your door. 

 

-

 

Matt’s still hanging out on your couch, not having moved in awhile. Tom may have broken him. Great. He can honestly sometimes be really insensitive. Eh. Nothing you can’t fix. 

Matt kind of jumps when he feels your hand lightly land on his shoulder. He cranes his neck a little to look at your face. He just looks a little bewildered. 

“You know he doesn’t mean it.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for awhile. “But, do you think.... are we his friends?”

You can’t help smiling.

“We consider him a friend and I’m sure he thinks of us as friends, he just doesn’t like to admit it. If he actually hates us.... that’s a different story,” his eyes light up a little and a smile easily finds its way onto his angular face. 

“I knew it! I just needed someone else to tell me, you know?” He has the weirdest episodes. Matt’s usually rather dismissive of Tom’s view of him. He more than makes up for the negative outlook by himself. He shoots up and you head back to the broken vase. 

“You’re not fooling anyone, Matt.”

He scoffs and fans his hand in a dismissive manner. “Nonsense. I’m not trying to ‘fool’ anyone!” 

“Uh huh.  
“Anyway, you guys are like brothers. Don’t worry about it too much.”

His grin widens. “Thanks Edd! Ah, look at the time; I have a tea party to attend!”  
As he rushes towards the door, a question pops into you head. “Who are- aaaand he’s gone.” 

 

You were going to ask, before you were rudely interrupted,  
“Tea party?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy you made it to the end again! 
> 
> So, I'm going to be trying to keep up posting a chapter every two weeks
> 
>  
> 
> Cya guys then(hopefully)!

**Author's Note:**

> Wowee you made it to the end!  
> Congratulations!  
> You get a gold star!
> 
> Okay but seriously thanks it means a lot 
> 
> I'll be trying to add another chapter every two weeks, but i cant make any promises; school is going to be the death of me haha-
> 
> Anyways, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year!  
> And a special thanks to my two, amazing proof-readers for this chapter!


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